


Abandoned Inception WIP

by resqueln



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, WIP Amensty 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:15:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resqueln/pseuds/resqueln
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-movie.  Fischer comes after them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abandoned Inception WIP

“Fischer knows,” is the first thing Cobb says to him in three months. From the sound of it he’s walking somewhere, traffic noise carrying across on the phone’s speaker.

“What?” Arthur demands. “How?”

Across the room Eames and their current extractor, Juarez, both turn to look at him. 

“I don’t know. Someone in the business sold us out I think. He had our names, Arthur. He’s coming after us.”

Arthur stifles a curse. “The kids?”

“They’re safe,” Cobb says shortly. “I have to go. Arthur, be careful,” he says sincerely and Arthur closes his eyes for a moment.

“You too. Thanks -” _For the warning_ he means but cuts himself short, conscious of Juarez’s eyes on him.

Dom rings off. 

“The job’s off,” Arthur says. “We’re leaving.”

Eames’ gaze is sharp but he doesn’t ask any questions, just starts packing away the PASIV.

“But we’re halfway through - ” Juarez says in disbelief.

“If I say it’s off, it’s off. Get out of here, Juarez.” 

Juarez leaves with muttered curses through the main door, slamming it behind him.

“What is it?” Eames asks when they’re alone, PASIV case in hand.

“That was Cobb. Fischer knows about the job,” Arthur says as they both start for the backdoor.

Somewhere out front someone starts shouting and then there’s the rattle of gunfire. Eames curses and yanks the door open and then they take off running. There’s a rank of cars behind the warehouse, a car park for the decrepit block of flats opposite. Eames smashes the window of one without pause, gets in and hotwires it in ten second flat. Arthur’s already sliding into the passenger seat as the engine rumbles to life. 

“Hold on,” Eames says through gritted teeth as he sticks his foot to the floor and pulls away, tyres squealing.

The narrow roads limit their speed. It makes no difference anyway, caltrops take their tyres out and then their pursuers are on them –two cars speeding to a stop behind them. People swarm out of the cars.

There are too many of them Arthur realises. Eames has obviously reached the same conclusion. He offers Arthur a tight smile. 

“Well, it was fun while it lasted.”

For some reason Arthur can’t look away from him. 

“Get your hands where I can see them!” someone yells.

They both raise their hands.

“Get them out of the car!”

Arthur’s heard of time slowing down in situations like these – when you know you’re going to die. He’d thought of it as cliché. Insignificant details bombard him as he’s dragged out of the car: the world is clear and bright, the sky above is celestial blue, the air piercingly cold. Someone hits him hard in the solar plexus and his breath fogs the air as it’s forced out of him in a rush. The snow crunches under his knees as he falls to them, the weight of a gun being pressed against his skull forcing his head down. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Eames being forced to kneel next to him.

A car makes its way up the narrow passageway and comes to a stop besides them. A door opens. Expensive shoes touch the ground at the edge of his vision and walk towards him.

“Are these the men, sir?” someone asks.

Abruptly the weight on the back of his head is gone. Arthur looks up and straight into Fischer’s eyes. He’s dressed expensively, same hesitant movements, same graceful turn of head but his eyes – his eyes –

“Yes,” Fischer says softly, nodding to the one of the masked men as he turns away.

The man gestures to someone standing behind Arthur. 

_That’s it?_ he wants to call out to Fischer, but the words choke in his throat as his head is forced down once more. Over the roar of blood in his ears he hears Eames take a sharp breath next to him and then his world zeroes down to the weight of a cold muzzle being pressed against the back of his skull and bile rises in his throat, his fingers closing futile around the die in his pocket and he shuts his eyes and then -

***

He bolts awake with a gasp, stomach heaving. He’s briefly aware of being on a hotel bed before he rolls onto his side and empties his stomach, dry retching when there’s nothing left to come up.

“Oh _fuck me_ ,” he hears someone – Eames – groan behind him and is faintly aware of the bed shifting and then hurried footsteps followed by a tap running.  
Outside, thunder rolls - low and threatening.

“Fuck,” Arthur says tightly when the retching subsides and he wipes his mouth shakily with the back of his hand. He hasn’t done that since his first weeks on Project Dreamshare.  
The tap is still running as he sits up. There’s a PASIV on the bed, one of the lines is still in his arm. Arthur pulls the line out angrily, ignoring the sting as it catches his skin. 

Another line trails, abandoned on the other side of the bed. 

There are only two lines.

There’s a gun on the bedside cabinet. For a moment Arthur wonders if he should grab it, demand answers. In the en suite the tap switches off. Eames reappears in the doorway, pale and scrubbing at his face with a towel. He stills when he sees Arthur’s gaze flick between the gun and himself. They stare at each other. 

Eames is almost as white as the sheets Arthur’s sitting on. He looks resigned, standing there waiting for Arthur to make his decision. After a moment Arthur turns fully to face him, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

“What the hell was that?” he demands instead. 

“A projection?” Eames says carefully, still not moving.


End file.
